By Jean Starr Untermeyer
There is a mist over this lake.
It shrouds the colors and the sounds as well;
It is wrapped over the hills like a strong veil
It blurs the patterns that the pine-trees make, lace- woven over the sky.
Old Sun, you can not pierce it;
As I look at you, you seem no more than a brightly- cloudy glass sphere.
Little birds, your chirring is dull…
A cow-bell, clanking in the woods,
Has the muffled music of minor thirds.
Oh mist, you have lessened everything.
Even my longing is choked within my breast;
I can find no song for it.